


But A Hot One

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Season/Series 07, sweater vest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean rocks out a sweater vest. Sam mocks him at first, but an accidental encounter convinces him to love the damn thing and ravish the boy in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But A Hot One

**Author's Note:**

> GOP Presidential candidate Rick Santorum makes me crazy: his views on marriage equality, on any sex act that's not "procreative" in nature, on his personal version of morality--all of these things drive me to madness. So when he started sporting a sweater vest--though not near as well Dean--it struck me: what better revenge than to weave Santorum in a S/D story--to make him a plot point on the road to hot sex? I knew of none, and here it is.

Dean strutted out of the bathroom, anticipating applause. Or at least a wolf whistle.

Nothing.

Sam wasn’t even looking. He was perched on the edge of the bed, eyefucking his laptop again.

“Sam!” Dean crowed. “Seriously. Do I look great or what?”

Sam blinked.

“Wha—-” he started, eyes snapping up. He stared at Dean for a second--then broke out into a huge grin and started hooting.

Not the reaction Dean had been expecting, but ok. He could roll with it. “I know, right?” he said, spreading his arms. “I make this look awesome, don’t I?”

Sam shook his head, snorting. “Come on, you have got to be kidding me. A sweater vest? Seriously? We’re going to a church, not a PGA tournament.”

Dean stood up a little straighter. “What?” he said, trying not to sound defensive. “You’re just jealous because you could never pull this off. You’d look like the captain of the chess club. Nerd.”

Sam snickered. “Dude, you look like a middle school principal.”

“Yeah, but a hot one,” Dean shot back, admiring himself in the mirror. “Or maybe a tutor. Yeah, like a private French tutor for hot rich chicks who–”

Sam got up, stretched. “No hot chick is coming anywhere near you in that getup.” He yawned and straightened his tie. “Can we go now, Mr. Belding? We’re supposed to meet Pastor Rimes at two.”

Dean shrugged on his suit coat and opened the door. “Whatever you say, Screech,” he said, grinning, ducking his head, leaving Sam smacking the air.

**

The church was easy to find, planted out in the middle of an old field just on the edge of town. Though “town” seemed a bit generous for Aurelia, Iowa. It hadn’t seemed like much when they’d stumbled in the night before, bleary and stupid at four in the morning. Now, in the light of day, it seemed like even less. Pretty. Bucolic, even. But empty and slow. It felt like a place you grew up trying to get out of.

They found Rimes in his office, a surprisingly big space swimming in crosses and armchairs and Rick Warren posters. Sam did the talking, Dean did the gawking, and Rimes ushered them out before either could really get going, shuttling them towards a door at the back of the sanctuary.

"As I told Mr. Singer,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “in the past two weeks, this--spirit, or whatever it is, has shown up a Boy Scout ceremony, a meeting of the kitchen committee--those poor ladies--and the youth group’s all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.”

Dean perked up.

Sam frowned. “But you said it hasn’t hurt anybody, right? Or done any real damage?”

Rimes pushed the door open and started down the stairs. “No, no,” he said, gesturing for them to follow. “Just rattled some tea cups, knocked over a few plates. Really scared a few of those Weeblos, though. And it interrupted the breakfast right before the pecan-banana pancakes. A shame.”

“This monster has to be stopped,” Dean said, faux-seriously, and Sam shot him a look. Dean fired one back, one that said: _what the fuck are we doing here, exactly?_ Sam ignored him.

“So this is the multipurpose room,” Rimes said, ushering them inside. “All of the--incidents have been in here.”

They stopped inside the doorway, Dean nearly tripping over an old lady's cane. Because the whole room was old, filled with 50 or so elderly people rattling around in 100 metal folding chairs, chattering away and ignoring a little man at the front who was trying wildly to get their attention.

“Excuse me,” he squeaked, barely audible above the din. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we can get settled, then we can go ahead and get started–“

Sam turned to Rimes in confusion. “I’m sorry, are we interrupting something, or–?”

“Oh, yes,” the pastor said, snapping his fingers. “I’d forgotten. There’s a little meet-and-greet this afternoon for one of the Presidential candidates. That time of year, you know? I am sorry," he said, in a voice that refuted that claim, giving them what Sam assumed was his “charming” smile. “Shouldn’t last long. Only an hour or so, I think, so if you boys don’t mind waiting around--?”

Sam could feel Dean’s eyes burning into the side of his head. Politics were so not Dean’s thing. Neither was hanging out with old people. Dead ones, yes. Old ones, not so much.

“Fine,” Sam said, returning the fake smile. “We’ll just wait.” They sure as hell couldn’t break out the EMF counter with all these people around. Wouldn’t work, anyway, not with all the pacemakers and hearing aids and bionic hips in the place.

The pastor nodded briskly and clapped Sam’s hand in his, his rings biting into Sam's palm. Looked into his eyes in a way that made Sam feel off-key. “I appreciate that,” he said. “Jim was a good friend of mine, and he said if I ever needed–-”

“It’s fine,” Sam said again, trying to put some conviction into it. “Really. We’re happy to do it.”

 _The hell we are_ , he could hear Dean thinking.

**

They found a spot in the back, near the door that led to the parking lot. Nestled themselves in between stacks of folding chairs, a moldering piano, some ancient-looking dishtowels. At least, Dean thought, scowling, no one would notice if he fell asleep. Politics were so not his thing. And politics plus old people was really pushing it. Even Sam was looking a little annoyed, and all of this was his sort of shit. Used to be, anyway.

He sighed, twitching impatiently. Why didn’t they just get started already? He and Sam had bigger fish to fry right now: big, open-mouthed, human-eating douchebags who were just itching to take another bite out of them. And here they were just lollygagging along in some tiny little crap town in Iowa, pretending everything was just fine. That they had time for a piddling little maybe-ghost who was dicking around with retirees and kindergarteners.

But. This guy had been a friend of Jim’s, somehow, even though he seemed liked a gigantic tool. Hell, he'd managed to get in touch with Bobby. So they owed it to him to at least do a sweep. Take a look around. Scooby it up for show if they had to. At least make an effort. Right.

He tugged at his collar, glad he’d skipped the tie. The room was warm, way too warm for the weather, and he found himself seriously questioning his decision to break out the vest even though, right now, it was kind of the highlight of his day, even if Sam couldn’t appreciate its utter awesomeness.

Suddenly, a microphone screeched and the whole room jumped, which, for some of the old folks, was quite a feat. Hearing aids squawked all over the place as the little dude up front fumbled with the mike. He looked surprised that he’d managed to turn it on.

He cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he squeaked with a jittery smile. “Good afternoon. Welcome. Thank you all for taking time out of this beautiful day that the Lord has made to be here. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to-–”

“Franklin!” a woman in the front shouted. “It’s cold in here! I can’t pay attention to the man if I’m freezing my bippy off!” The room tittered.

“Bippy?” Dean said incredulously.

“Thelma, sit down and be quiet!” barked an old dude in a Skoal cap. “It’s fine. Now let the man finish.”

“No, I’m cold, too,” a biddie in red whined. “Turn up the heat, Franklin.”

There was a general clucking that Franklin–-apparently the guy with the mike-–took for a consensus, and he headed for the thermostat, sighing.

“Oh Jesus god!” Dean hissed, looking desperately at Sam. “It’s already a freakin’ sauna in here!”

“Dude, old people are always cold,” Sam whispered. “Relax. Go get some punch.” He nodded back towards the vestibule.

“There’s punch?” Dean said, turning. Punch usually meant cookies, and cookies = a happy Dean Winchester. “Do ya think it’s spiked?”

Sam sighed. “Dean, this is a church. These are old people.”

“Sounds like two good reasons to drink to me.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon!”

“And your point is--?”

Sam rolled his eyes as loudly as he could. Dean waggled his eyebrows and scurried away.

Sam leaned back and rested his head against the wall. Shifted uncomfortably in the heat. It'd seemed like a good idea to come to the church first and hit up the police station later--but right now, jeans and a t-shirt sounded a hell of a lot better than his damn dark suit. He felt like a navy blue baked potato.

Up front, Franklin had managed to temporarily regain control of the room.

“And as you know, the Senator is an ardent supporter of _life_ ,” he said in a hushed tone, as if invoking Yahweh himself. “He and his wife have seven beautiful children–-”

 _Catholic_ , thought Sam automatically.

“…sponsored the ban on partial birth abortions and–” Franklin paused, breathing wetly into the microphone, “he believes that the restoration of faith and family are the keys to putting this country back on the right track!”

The old people applauded enthusiastically, by their standards anyway. So more of a loud sigh.

The little man seemed buoyed by the response. “So,” he said, bouncing on his toes, “it’s my pleasure to introduce to you, the next President of the United States: Senator Rick Santorum!”

The room sighed again as the candidate peeked out from behind a side door, then scurried to the podium, remembering to smile. He was wearing too-neat khakis and a dark blue button down. _Trying to look casual_ , Sam thought, but it just made him look more uptight. He looked like he’d kill for a tie and sport coat.

Franklin handed the senator the microphone and patted him on the back, swooped into a chair in the front row.

“Well then,” the senator said. He grinned nervously, like an actor anticipating a cue. The room shuffled. Waited.

“Well, it sure is a pleasure to be with you here in Aurelia, Iowa!” he chirped, and the room sighed its approval.

“Cheap pop,” muttered Dean through a mouthful, sliding in next to Sam.

Sam stared at his overflowing plate. “Dude! Did you leave any cookies for the old people?”

“They can’t chew, Sam!” Dean tried to whisper, spraying crumbs all over Sam’s tie. “I’m doing ‘em a favor. I’m saving somebody’s dentures here.” He crunched down on a snickerdoodle for emphasis.

Sam rolled his eyes again. Turned pointedly back to the senator.

Dean shrugged and slurped his punch. Tried to listen to what the smarmy dude was saying.

“I don’t have a problem with homosexuals," Smarmy intoned in what Dean assumed was his “serious” voice,"but I do have a problem with homosexual acts, because I believe that the homosexual agenda threatens this country’s future.”

Dean quirked an eyebrow and leaned over.

“So gay people have bombs now?” he whispered. Sam ignored him.

“Because without faith, without family,” Smarmy warned, his face darkening, “we cannot have a strong and vibrant nation. Faith and family are central to our success as the greatest country the world has ever known, and secular society’s attempts to undermine traditional marriage, to deny the procreative purpose of the union between one man and one woman–-”

Sam snorted. Dean started on a chocolate chip cookie.

“And contraception is not okay,” the senator continued, waggling his finger at a white-haired guy who probably hadn’t had to worry about birth control in half a century. “It's not okay because some people,” Smarmy said, letting sarcasm shadow his voice, “ _some people_ seem to think that it gives them a license to do things in a sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be.”

Dean looked up, chewing. “Okay, you lost me there, sparky.”

But Smarmy was on a roll now. “I knew that supporting the Federal Marriage Act in 2004 would expose me to being labeled as a bigot, as a 'homophobe,' by the liberal media,” he said, his voice rising, his fist shaking, “but I firmly believe that my children, your grandchildren, _all_ of our children, deserve the right to grow up understanding that God intends for a man to have the love of one woman. And that is the definition of marriage!” Franklin leapt to his feet, leading the applause.

Dean chuckled. “God doesn’t give a shit, dude,” he advised, waving an oatmeal raisin around. “He’s too busy working through his Vision Quest.” He turned to Sam, looking for a laugh, but Sam was–- Jesus. Sam was pissed. His whole body was vibrating in a very unpleasant way, like an arrow pulled too tight in a bow.

Dean tipped his head, curious. “Sam?”

Sam didn’t look at him, just set his teeth and stared straight ahead like he did sometimes right before he popped Dean in the mouth.

Smarmy was nattering on again, something about Iran and a bomb in a headscarf or something, and all Dean could think was that maybe he should sidle over and disrupt Sammy’s line of sight. Not that Sam would do anything rash, but he was still technically Satan’s bitch, and Dean figured better safe than sorry. He took a step over, started to move around, but Sam’s arm shot up. Blocked him.

“‘M fine,” he hissed. “Be still.”

“Uh huh,” Dean whispered back. “That’s why you’re doing your best hand of vengeance impression, Bruce Wayne.”

Sam shook his head. “I just don’t like this guy, ok? I don’t like what he’s saying.”

Dean jammed the last cookie in his mouth and set down his plate. “Why? What’s he saying?”

“Dude! You heard him! He thinks that gay people are, like, equivalent to demons or something.”

“Pfft,” Dean said quietly. “You know that’s not true.” He reached up and squeezed Sam’s elbow, covering it with crumbs. “Demons have no fashion sense. They’ll wear anyone that moves.”

“He’s a bigot, Dean,” Sam gritted. “And a hatemonger. The world is crappy enough without people like him convincing us to hate each other.”

Dean squeezed his elbow again, knocked his head against Sam’s shoulder. “I don’t hate you, sport.”

Sam snorted. Relaxed a little. “Gee, thanks.”

“Sure thing.” Dean looked up at him. “Hey, are you hot?”

Sam took the opening. “If you have to ask, Dean--”

“Hilarious. No, I mean, why don’t we wait outside? It’s a hell of a lot cooler out there. And we’ll know when this damn thing is over when the Bone Squad wanders out, right?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“And hopefully the walls will protect this dick from your death stare, Cyclops.”

Sam bumped his shoulder. Smiled.

They slid out, snagged more punch from the refreshment table, and perched outside in the sun, hitching themselves up onto the low retaining wall just outside the door. Dean kept up a steady patter about the shitty old cars in the parking lot, the cute redheaded waitress from the night before, the stupid NASA program Sam had made him watch last week, yammering away until he saw Sammy relax. Saw the Batman-level fury start to fade.

“Anyway,” Dean said, hopping down, “you’ve seen _Capricorn One_ , dude. It proved that they totally faked those moon landings.”

“What?!” Sam barked, his science nerd umbrage blooming around him. “ _Capricorn One_ isn’t a documentary, jackass! OJ Simpson’s in it!”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean said, remembering. “And the guy from _Law and Order_.”

“Exactly! So, fiction. Not real. Totally made up.”

“Yeah. Just like the moon landings,” Dean deadpanned.

Sam laughed. “Maybe you should have gone to law school with reasoning skills like that.” He paused. “And that sweater vest. You woulda fit right in.”

Dean preened. “I told you, dude. This so works for me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, the doors opened behind them and a slow but steady stream of old people emerged, canes waving, walkers squeaking, crotchetiness on full display. They flattened themselves against the wall and watched the grey wave pass them by. Thought they were home free.

“Well hello!” the senator said cheerfully, suddenly appearing at Dean's side.

“Uh, hi,” Dean said, feeling Sam tense up behind him.

Smarmy smiled. “It's so nice to see godly young people like yourselves taking an interest in the future of this beautiful country!” he said, offering his hand.

Dean shook it. Didn’t really see an alternative. “Yep,” he said. “That’s us. Interested in the future. Forward-looking. Eyes on the horizon. The way forward. All that stuff.”

Smarmy let go of his hand. Looked him up and down. “Say,” he said, chuckling. “That’s a real nice sweater vest you got there. It's kinda dashing.”

Dean grinned. “Thank you,” he said, pretending not to hear Sam scoff.

The senator nodded. “Yes. I like that a whole lot." He smiled. “I’ll have to remember that--what’s your name, son?”

What the hell. “Dean, sir.”

“Well, Dean, you keep up the good work. Stay invested in America. Because you and your friend here? The future of this country depends on you.”

“So they keep telling me,” Dean said, showing his teeth.

The senator smiled, clapped Dean on the back and wandered off, heading towards a beat-up pickup truck with “Santorum for President” painted on the side.

Sam reached over and tugged at his vest, grinning.

“I had no idea that these were the thing for fascists to be wearing this year,” he teased. “Explains a lot about you, Dean.”

“He may be a bigot,” Dean said, shading his eyes from the sun, “but the man does have fashion sense. Unlike some people.” He smacked Sam on the arm. “C’mon, let’s get to ghosting, Egan. Maybe there are some cookies left.”

Sam held him fast, his fist still wrapped in the vest. Pulled him close. Kissed Dean in that you-are-more-important-than-oxygen way that he had.

“Um,” Dean said, blinking. Trying not to grin like an idiot. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” said Sam. “Nice vest.”

**

Their plan to hit the police station that afternoon was shot all to hell.

First they swept the multipurpose room. Nada. So they moved through the church floor by floor, Dean getting pissier with every not-hit. The kitchen. The choir loft. The nurseries. The Sunday school wing, twice. Still nothing. No cold spots. No mysterious noises or looming spectres, just dust and righteousness hanging over the whole place like a shroud. Dean wasn't sure which one made him sneeze more.

By the time they finished, it was almost dark and Rimes was nowhere to be found. And, best of all, the police station was fucking closed. At five o'clock on a Thursday. Awesome. Which meant at least another day out here in corn country.

“Damn it,” Dean bitched, pushing his way into their motel room. “I told you this was a fucking waste of time, Sam.”

Sam followed him in. Shut the door.

Dean shrugged off his suit coat and threw it at the bed. Sighed. “Now we’ll have to go back by there tomorrow and tell him–“

Hands clamped down on his shoulders and spun him around. He found his face full of Sam’s. Which was flushed and bright and headed straight for him.

“Dean,” Sam murmured into his mouth, chasing his voice with his tongue. He held Dean’s head in his hands, turning and tipping it between his fingers. Luxuriating. Taking his damn time. Dean made a little pleased sound in his throat. Relaxed. Wrapped his arms around Sam’s body. Let himself be kissed.

Suddenly, Sam shoved him away and he flew backwards. Hard.

“What the hell?” he gasped.

Sam was looking at him funny. Like he was starving and Dean was the last club salad on Earth. He licked his lips, eyes boring into Dean’s–-chest?

Dean took a step back involuntarily. Followed Sam’s gaze. “What is–-wait, the vest?” he said incredulously. “Come on, Sammy, you–-“

“Shut up,” Sam snarled, dropping his jacket on the floor.

“You said I look like a middle school principal!” Dean barked, not sure if he was freaked out or incredibly turned on. Maybe both.

“Yeah, but a hot one,” Sam panted, yanking off his tie. “C’mere.” He took two steps and grabbed Dean, pushed him until his back smashed into the wall. Until Dean basically had no choice but to surrender. Willingly, but still.

“This is weird, Sam,” Dean managed as Sam worked a knee between his legs, slid his hands all over the goddamn stupid sweater vest.

“Stop talking,” Sam growled in his face, digging his hands under Dean’s shirt, bunching the vest between them, pushing his fingers into Dean’s ribs.

“Okaayy,” Dean breathed.

Sam slid his mouth down Dean’s jaw, and Dean knew what was coming as Sam latched onto that place on his neck, the one behind his ear, the one that always made him–-

He keened, this low muddled sound that echoed in his ears, then bit his lip, clamped his mouth shut. But Sam kept working at him, the bastard, kept licking and biting and sucking, his tongue moving in time to his fingers as they fanned across Dean’s chest, as they slid down and across his stomach.

“Arrumm,” Dean sighed, sliding his hands up the back of Sam’s shirt. He pressed his palms in, let the tension in Sam’s body seep into his hands and shoot up his arms.

“Dean,” Sam breathed against his neck, in a way that made his name sound completely filthy. Sam planted his mouth on Dean’s and stole his breath, his tongue hot and insistent, his lips fat and slick between Dean’s teeth. He pulled his head up a little and Dean rocked up to chase him, a needy noise in his mouth--but he found Sam’s cock pushing into his hip, his own sliding over Sam’s thigh, hard as a hot rock, and he froze.

It was like some weird synaptic overload for a second; he couldn't think, couldn't see, so he curved his face into Sam’s chest, choking back a groan. Sam pressed his lips into Dean’s hair, and Dean could feel him grinning as he shifted his hips and fucking shoved his cock into Dean’s body, trapping Dean’s cock against his leg and grinding until Dean’s mouth fell open and he moaned, this long loud sound that seemed to make Sam very happy.

“Yeah,” he rumbled, his voice coiling into Dean’s ear. “Do you want to come like this, baby? I can make you come without even touching you, without even stroking your cock–-“

“Oh fuck, Sam!” Dean groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

Sam dug his fingernails into Dean’s back, still grinding, still grinning. “Is that what you want?” he cooed, and the gentle voice just made him sound even dirtier. “Or do you want me to suck your cock, Dean?”

Dean made a totally incoherent noise, his hips snapping into Sam’s.

“Mmmm,” Sam murmured. He slid his mouth down and brushed his lips over Dean’s ear. “Or. Do you know what I want?”

Dean shook his head. Felt Sam’s tongue on his neck. He knew what was coming. But it didn’t make any damn difference.

“I want to fuck you,” Sam growled, and Dean’s head slammed back into the wall and something slurry and dark fell out of his mouth and at this point, Sam could have said he wanted to sing the score from _Cats_ and Dean would have gotten off, but jesus, Sam was fucking relentless with his hands, his mouth, his hips and Dean was about 30 seconds from having absolutely no say in the matter unless he–-

“Yeah,” he panted, not recognizing his own voice. “I want. That. You. Fuck me.”

Sam went still. “Dean,” he said, his voice low in his throat. Pleased. Maybe a little bit smug. “Take your damn clothes off.”

He pulled away and Dean nearly fell over.

By the time his brain rejoined his body, already in progress, his clothes were on the floor and he was on the bed, smothering, Sam folded over him, molding Dean’s body with his mouth and those long fingers that felt like they were sliding under Dean’s skin, digging into someplace only Sam could touch, that only he could find.

He was close and Sam knew it, knew enough not to touch his cock, not really, just slid his fingers down Dean’s hips as they kissed, teasing and promising but not pushing so hard that Dean would fall apart. Not yet.

That was the thing, with Sam. It was like making love to a sword in a sheath, sometimes; it felt like Sam was full of all this weird kinetic energy, violent and unpredictable and wild, that he tried so hard to keep in check. Even before Hell, before Lucifer, it had always felt like Sam didn’t trust himself completely when they were like this. Like he was afraid of what would happen if he let the blade all the way out into the light.

There was always a tension in him that never went away, even when he slept, even when he came and fell blurry and sweet in Dean’s arms.

Times like this, it felt like his tenderness was cut through with ferocity, like if he let his guard down for too long he could utterly destroy Dean as they fucked, could rip him to shreds with a caress.

Dean pressed his face into the mattress, his body wholly focused on Sam’s mouth as it worked down his spine, dove over his shoulder blades, traced scars that only Sam had seen. He arched up blindly, afraid of losing the touch, and Sam soothed him with his hands, stroked Dean’s sides, humming, his mouth still buzzing over Dean’s skin as he worked his way down.

Sam stretched him gently, his fingers cold and relentless and slick, until Dean was shoving back against him, drenched in sweat and half-crazy and so hard he wasn’t totally sure that he was still conscious.

“Please,” he begged, again and again, until he felt Sam pull away, heard the condom wrapper tear, and then he was full and Sammy was draped over his back and they were both lost. Dean screamed, low and sweet and satisfied, and he heard Sam growl, felt him dig his teeth into Dean’s neck as his control slipped, just a little, and he started fucking Dean in earnest, burying himself inside and pulling away and coming back harder than before. He wrapped his fingers around Dean’s cock, moaning into his ear, and Dean shot all over his hand, the sheets, a bullet in a barrel that was already spent. “Sammy!” he cried hoarsely and Sam started shaking, started slamming into him, Dean’s name falling from his mouth, pooling beneath them, until he came with a roar, his body buckling even as he screamed, even as Dean collapsed beneath him, and everything went pleasantly dark for awhile.

Dean opened his eyes and found himself staring at Sam’s throat. They were wrapped together, those long arms around him, their legs hot and tangled. He tilted his head, kissed Sam’s jaw and Sam stirred, his arms tightening instinctively.

“Wha–-?” he started, his eyes sluggish.

Dean grinned. Pushed his fingers through Sam’s hair for a while. Listened to him purr.

“Is that gonna happen every time I wear that thing?” he asked finally.

Sam chuckled. “Every time we have to listen to an anti-sex bigot, maybe.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

Sam shook his head, grinning. “Forget it.”

Dean sat up a little, leaning his shoulder into the pillows. “Wait, so you fucked me–-as a political statement?”

Sam laughed. Opened his eyes. They were glittering in that way that Dean liked. The way they did when Sam was happy. “I stuck it to the man. So to speak,” he said, his face cracking.

Dean shook his head. Tried not to smile quite as broadly as he wanted to. “Uh huh,” he said. “You are so fucking weird, Sam.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining, sunshine,” Sam said, sliding his hand over Dean’s thigh.

“Hilarious,” Dean said, maybe a little breathless. He slid down and settled himself on Sam’s chest. Teased Sam’s mouth open with his tongue. And that was the end of that.

**

A few weeks later, they were eating breakfast in Nebraska when Dean saw it.

“Hey,” he said, chucking the paper across the table. “Look who it is. Your favorite senator.”

Sam groaned and pushed the paper away, stabbing valiantly at his fruit cup. “Dude, I hate that guy.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. But check out what he’s wearing,” Dean said, grinning.

Sam looked down at the picture.

Looked back up at Dean.

Whose grin shifted as he saw Sam’s face. As he watched Sam’s eyes shift and darken and gleam in the best possible way.

Dean waved for the check.

“I’m not putting it on for you, princess,” he told Sam, leaning over the table.

“Really?” Sam said thoughtfully, catching his eye. “We’ll see. I guess it depends on what you want.”

Dean groaned, dropped a twenty on the table, and grabbed Sam’s shoulder, shoved him towards the door.

“You call me Mr. Belding and you’re a dead man,” he growled in Sam’s ear.

Sam grinned and held the door open for him. “Whatever you say, Screech,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> All of the policy statements "Rick Santorum" makes in this story are paraphrased or drawn directly from some of the candidate's public statements.


End file.
